


as far as you can see

by kuraku



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 17:00:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuraku/pseuds/kuraku
Summary: set in a post-apocalyptic world.jongdae read that in the summer, people used to go to the beach. baekhyun wants to recreate the experience for him.【 EXO SEASONAL FEST, ROUND TWO: PROMPT PETAL → #84 】





	as far as you can see

“Jongdae has this book, you see.”

Sehun is only half-listening and Baekhyun knows it; he’s flicking orange peels down into the ravine, listening to the sound of pebbles clattering and the skitter of small, foreign feet when the creatures that live beneath the rocks come out to take them. Baekhyun used to think that they made nests out of them: strange, gummy things out of fruit cores and peanut shells, padded with burnt grass and tree branches. He now knows that they actually eat them: something that, in more desperate times, he’s sure he would have done, too. He’s lucky enough to have the rice that his family harvests―even if most of it is sent away to the Capital―and the vegetables that they manage to grow, despite the continued danger of contaminated soil.

(At this point, Baekhyun figures, they’re all going to die; it’s just a matter of time, his brother often says. They should eat whatever they can, while they can, and have no regrets―the words of his mother, announced cheerfully ahead of the sparse side dishes and small offerings that meant dinner.)

Sehun bites down on an orange slice, and the juice hits Baekhyun in the cheek. He frowns, but brushes it off with a teasing push of Sehun’s broad shoulders. The younger boy gets away with way too much, Baekhyun thinks, but he encourages it all the same.

“What did I just say?” he challenges, and Sehun shrugs at him, his eyes focused somewhere out in the distance.

“Jongdae has a book,” Sehun parrots back, his mouth full.

“Jongdae has a book,” Baekhyun agrees, and his voice lilts, sings with the chirping pleasure of the excited birds in his stomach, fluttering around, flapping wings full of affection and delight. Sehun has heard him wax poetic about Jongdae far too often to be phased by it, and he rolls his eyes, but Baekhyun pretends not to see it.

“In the book,” Baekhyun continues, and in the distance, there’s some kind of distorted howling, like one of the night creatures has woken up early, dismayed to find the sun still clinging to the sky, “...there are these pictures, of what cities used to look like? And there would be these things called parks, and zoos, and all these other places where they tried to like, contain nature, in the middle of all the buildings. Isn’t that weird? If they wanted it all so much, why didn’t they just live out here?”

Sehun snorts. “Because we’re in the middle of nowhere,” he answers, but Baekhyun is already talking over him, driving forward with the force of someone who doesn’t mind standing in the middle of a verbal rainstorm.

“And in the summer,” Baekhyun continues; his hands gesture out widely, long fingers dancing, painting pictures in the hazy air, swirling it into minute patterns and shapes, “...there were―“

 

“Beaches,” Jongdae says, softly. He’s standing outside the barn with his back to the wood; Baekhyun can see the sweat beading at Jongdae’s temples, going down the sharp line of his jaw and chin. One of Baekhyun’s hands searches, blindly, for his pocket; there’s a handkerchief there, dutifully mended by his mother, and he struggles to pull it out while keeping his eyes locked on Jongdae’s features, refusing to miss even the most minute change.

“Long stretches of sand, like as far as you could see,” he continues, and Baekhyun nods like it’s something he’s never heard. In reality, Jongdae has daydreamed about this almost every time they’ve been alone together. Maybe it’s because Baekhyun is the only person who will listen to it, over and over again, without getting bored―and selfishly, he hopes that maybe it’s because he’s the only person that Jongdae can trust with thoughts like this, the kind that seem selfish and unnecessary in their world. Baekhyun knows that his brother would scold him if he ever started rattling on about the conveniences of the past―he already scolds him when he talks too much about _anything_ , but missing things he’s never experienced would push his brother’s patience to its limits.

“Seashells,” Baekhyun says, earnestly, as he reaches for Jongdae’s wrist and holds it within the round grasp of his long fingers. Jongdae grins at him when the handkerchief is pressed into his palm, and Baekhyun grins back, because he can’t help it. There’s just something about Jongdae’s smile that screams for reciprocity; it’s warm and weightless, or maybe that’s just Baekhyun’s heart, fluttering up in his chest, knocking against his ribs whenever he sees it. Jongdae dabs at the sweat, pushing the material up underneath the sticky weight of his bangs and down his cheek and jaw.

“Seashells everywhere, and sea glass. You know, the way they make glass here?” Jongdae hands the handkerchief back, and Baekhyun takes it and stuffs it into his pocket. He’ll wring it out in the wash later.

“The ocean does that too,” Jongdae murmurs, and his gaze goes out towards the setting sun. It’s getting dark enough that Baekhyun will have to head home for dinner and the final head count of the evening. Still, he stays rooted where they are, eyes watching the way the light and shadow of the dying daylight sharpens Jongdae’s features in some places, and dulls them in others. His cheeks look hollow; Baekhyun wonders if he’s been getting enough to eat.

“Do you think the water was cold?” Baekhyun wonders out loud, and Jongdae turns back to look at him again. 

“ _Freezing_ cold,” Jongdae teases, and reaches with his fingertips for Baekhyun’s side; they drum and bend through the air like the eager legs of a spider, searching for the solid sticky barrier of a web to cling to. Laughing, Baekhyun darts sidelong―he’s particularly sensitive to Jongdae’s tickling fingers, and he doesn’t want to get caught, but when his hand braces on the side of the barn, ready to turn the corner, he hears the wind up of the siren: short and loud, a roar of admonishment, before it cuts out again.

Jongdae’s still grinning, but his eyes have lost a little of their gleam. When he looks at Baekhyun, it’s with the tender gaze of someone longing for something they can’t have. Baekhyun wishes it were him―that Jongdae were wanting to get closer to him, to wrap his arms around him, tender and slow, and pull them into the kind of kiss he’s dreamed about, the kind he’s imagined since he was twelve and realized that girls didn’t give him the same kind of delicious chill that boys did.

“That’s the call for the night,” Jongdae says aloud, though neither of them need the reminder. “You should get back home.”

Jongdae wants to know what it feels like to lay in the sand and not worry. He wants to hear the waves of the ocean, to feel the clean breeze on his face, to take in a deep breath and not worry that his lungs will give out before he can take another one. Baekhyun knows all of these things, because he’s Jongdae’s best friend. He doesn’t need to be told. He just _knows_.

Their future might be short―they’re all going to die, Baekhyun figures, it’s just a matter of time.

That’s why he needs―

 

“Sand?” Chanyeol balks at him; his eyes go round and his jaw goes slack and it’s this look, Baekhyun thinks―this look is the reason why people think he’s annoying, because Baekhyun finds himself wanting to shake him a little, grab those broad shoulders and rattle his head around. Chanyeol’s muscles stretch when he moves to lift another bucket, holding it against his stomach as he walks, slow and carefully, to where he needs to set it down again. Baekhyun follows him earnestly, like a duckling that doesn’t quite know when to stop. 

“Just a little,” Baekhyun continues, and his voice is casual and light, as though he’s not _really_ asking for Chanyeol to do something that’s against the Law. In reality, he knows the kind of trouble he’s asking for; he just doesn’t want to think of what might happen if they get caught. He doesn’t want to think about implicating Chanyeol in anything, but he’s one of the few people he can trust.

He’s also one of the few people who has access. 

“Maybe... one sack,” Baekhyun suggests, and Chanyeol lets out a laugh that’s so loud, Baekhyun wants to hit him. His lips press together and he forces himself to continue smiling, even when Chanyeol grins at him and shakes his head a little, lifting his arm so that he can towel off the sweat from his brow onto the worn material there.

“How would I even explain that? I mean, yeah, sometimes stuff goes missing, or there’s a hole somewhere, but an entire sack....” Chanyeol is still shaking his head, even when he turns back towards his work table.

“Come _on_ , Chanyeol, I covered for you before!” Baekhyun whines―it’s his trump card. 

He figures he doesn’t need to remind him, but the words still wait, quick and hot-tempered, on his tongue: that time that Chanyeol and his friends snuck out through a hole in one of the fences, the one that had been temporarily disconnected from the electricity that ran in a hot loop around the compound, and had spent a good few hours in the lake that was outside the perimeter and off-limits. It had been a scorching, painful summer, and they had wanted to cool off.

Baekhyun hadn’t gone with them. It had been a lucky break for Chanyeol that he hadn’t.

He can see, in the consternation written across Chanyeol’s face, that he’s pulled at the right thread. Chanyeol’s resolve comes unraveled like a scarf that’s been knit together with a faulty first stitch, coming apart in loops and loops of soft, tangled yarn. His shoulders slump and his mouth relaxes and he stares at his work table for a moment before he rounds on Baekhyun, holding up one long finger as if it’s a flag of warning.

Baekhyun smiles up at him, warm and keen.

“A half of a bag, and you don’t get any more favors from me,” Chanyeol grumbles.

 

In truth, he doesn’t need any more favors. The water is easy enough to obtain―even if it means he goes without washing for a few days, and evaporation eats up some of the liquid from the bucket as Baekhyun stares down into it in dismay. 

Joonmyun had looked at him funny on the third day: when Baekhyun, covered in grime and sweat, had asked for a refill, and Joonmyun had asked him if he washed _anything_ with the water from the day before, and Baekhyun had winked and insisted _only the important parts_ ―Joonmyun had groaned and sent him away.

Sehun couldn’t find any shells: the closest thing, he insisted, would be to crack open a few more peanuts and use those, maybe style them with paint or something. It had been the worst idea that Baekhyun had ever heard, but he’d appreciated the effort. At least Sehun was doing _something_ , and he was certain that the younger boy probably did at least glance at the ground once or twice during his scouting missions just in case.

Baekhyun hadn’t expected anything: that would have been too great a miracle. They lived too close to all the trees for there to be any ocean anywhere nearby. Did birds collect those sorts of things? Baekhyun imagined the few that were left certainly wouldn’t use the hard, pointy edges of shells and sea glass to make bedding for their young. If they had any young.

Baekhyun had once seen a baby bird, squawking and naked and blind, perched up in a tree amongst the discarded egg shell of its former home. The mother bird had been thin and heaving. When it arrived at the nest, it did not see the sad sight of a child seeking shelter and comfort. It had seen its first full meal in days, and Baekhyun had stumbled back through the woods in sickened disbelief.

The Virus―it even affects some of the animals. 

Baekhyun wonders if the reason they send all of their earnings to the Capital is so that they can study whatever this is, and find a cure.

He wonders if there will ever be an evening where he doesn’t hear the sharp, roaring echo of the siren announcing last call for the night.

He wonders what Jongdae thinks, when he lays in bed at night.

He wonders―

 

“...how much?” 

Kyungsoo is staring at him, his round eyes triggered with both annoyance and impatience.

Baekhyun is crouched next to the counter, both of his hands on the edge of it, and the small dish there is level with his eyes. He looks from it, then to Kyungsoo, then to the small, ragged bag pinched between his hands.

“This is all I’m giving you,” Kyungsoo repeats, calmly, like he’s speaking to a child. 

“But how much is this?” Baekhyun repeats, like having some kind of exact measurement is going to encourage Kyungsoo to spare more of the powder. Salt is something that they ran out of, long ago, in his own house; Kyungsoo is one of the only people he knows who still has some, and never seems to run out. He imagines that there must be some kind of method for making it, for getting it, for conserving it―but he doesn’t have the time to learn.

The air at the beach, it’s supposed to be salty. Baekhyun doesn’t quite know how he’s going to accomplish that yet, but having salt in his possession _has_ to be step one.

Kyungsoo’s full lips look as thin as Baekhyun’s ever seen them. He seems to be one of the few people in the world that can make Kyungsoo’s face pinch up like this; he considers it a personal talent.

Winding up to speak, Kyungsoo straightens up to his full height.

And then there’s a noise.

It’s a sharp sound, like the siren at night or the one in the morning, but this one is different. It goes in circles, around and around, a desperate repetition, and it blares out all around them, Baekhyun lifts up his hands to shield his ears; his eyes squint shut, but the sound moves through the spaces between his fingers, pounding into his head until he can feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

It takes him a moment to realize that Kyungsoo is touching him: that there’s a soft, warm weight on his arm, and Baekhyun’s eyes open, and he finds that Kyungsoo’s staring at him again, but it’s gentle, painted over with concern. The siren is suddenly, eerily, silent.

“Baekhyun,” he says, and Baekhyun can feel knots in his stomach, like someone’s reached in and started tangling his intestines, tying them in tight bows, “...you should go home. Check on your family.”

He hasn’t heard that siren in at least a year. He thought they had all been more careful, lately; the new safety regulations had been enforced with a strict hand, and Baekhyun had fallen into a blanket of comfort, padded by a bed made of reassurances and assumptions.

Still, he knows―the siren for someone that is―

 

“...infected,” Jongdae says simply.

His voice sounds muffled, through the plastic cage. There’s a whole line of them: cube after cube, stacked up next to each other the way that his neighbor down the road stacks chickens into crates, preparing them to be taken to the butcher. Baekhyun supposes it’s a similar situation. Perhaps they’re all numbered, and one by one, the people inside of them move down the line, closer and closer to the sharpened blade of the executioner.

Baekhyun doesn’t really know what happens to any of the Infected. They simply disappear, one day, like they’re some illusion, and eventually people don’t even remember their names. Their houses are donated to other families; their livestock and their gardens and their provisions given to those in need. 

He used to think they were taken to the Capital. That had been when he was younger. When he didn’t quite understand his place in the world.

Jongdae’s eyes look at him warmly, and though he knows he shouldn’t, Baekhyun finds his gaze wandering down the sharp angles of Jongdae’s jaw to the plush cushion of his lips and despite everything, he’s still fantasizing about kissing him.

“I don’t understand,” Baekhyun says at first, in a warm voice that seems to think this is all some kind of big, stupid joke.

Jongdae’s still smiling. _Damn him, for smiling._

“Can I ask you a favor?” he says, and Baekhyun inches closer. He knows he’s not technically supposed to be here, but as far as they know, the Virus comes through meat or blood or some kind of liquid, not through the air. At least, that’s what Baekhyun’s brother told him. He imagines that all of this plastic and the dividers are simply for a peace of mind.

Besides―Kyungsoo’s calm, patient lover works in the infirmary, and nothing bad has ever happened to him.

(Baekhyun owes him one: earlier, Yixing had pretended not to see him sneak into the back.)

“Anything,” Baekhyun says. He’s nearly close enough for them to touch. Jongdae looks so small, there, in the plastic cage with a bed that’s only a mattress on the floor and a stark, white blanket, with a bucket in the corner and a small stool and recycled air and a ruddy dirt floor.

Jongdae wets his lips. “Can you bring me my...”

 

“...book,” Baekhyun screeches, and tears roll down his cheeks. They’re thick and disgusting, and he can feel the way they break through the dirt smeared on his cheek, making cleaner stripes across his filthy skin. Chanyeol’s trying to hold him by one arm; the other one flails out wildly, knocking over a pile of dishes that go skidding to the floor, off the desk. One of them smashes, and the pieces scatter into large chunks of ceramic.

“Jongdae has a book!” He’s still yelling, and Chanyeol yanks on him just enough so that his knees don’t go right into the mess of the dishes. Sehun starts to pick them up, carefully.

“And there are pictures of the way the world _used_ to be!”

Kyungsoo is carefully running his thumb down the spines of all the books on the meager bookshelf, searching.

“Before all of this stupid _bullshit_!”

Joonmyun’s back is braced against the bedroom door. The entire house is quarantined, and he’s afraid that Baekhyun’s screaming will draw the attention of those around them. He’s already nearly trashed it, in his rage; furniture toppled over, shelves in disarray. The bedroom is relatively untouched if only because of their final intervention.

“Baekhyun,” Chanyeol starts, but anger drives Baekhyun’s movements, and he doesn’t care that his shirt sleeve rips at the shoulder as he struggles, a loud tear that startles even Yixing, who has been waiting patiently by the large, open window of Jongdae’s bedroom where they expected to climb out in escape. Baekhyun struggles so much that Chanyeol eventually gives up and wraps both of his arms around his middle, hoisting him up to his feet again.

“I’ve got it,” Kyungsoo says softly, and Baekhyun’s voice quiets, into tiny little sobs that shake his ribcage, threatening to pierce into his heart.

 

“I’ve got it,” Baekhyun says softly. “And something else.”

Jongdae’s eyebrows lift at him in surprise. It’s been a few days, now, and his face is gaunt, the skin a sickly, off-white color, like an egg that’s gone bad. His shirt sags around his frame, and Baekhyun knows without even seeing it that Jongdae’s muscle has slowly begun being eaten up by his body, desperate for nutrients he can’t get in his isolation.

He wants to unzip the barrier, climb inside the cage, wrap his arms around Jongdae’s figure and squeeze some of his own life into him.

Instead, he unlaces his boots, peels off his socks, and leaves them outside Jongdae’s cube.

Like it’s nothing―like there’s no risk of infection, like he’s not risking his life―he pulls open the plastic door to hand Jongdae the book and then, with some trouble, starts dragging the full, heavy bag of sand across the dirt floor, watching it catch on the weighted edge of the plastic cage. Jongdae stares at him like he’s crazy―he stumbles back a few steps, nearly tripping over the wilted mattress on the floor, and the book is clutched against his chest.

“Baekhyun,” he starts in warning, but Baekhyun doesn’t hear any of it.

“Long...” he grunts out, as the bag tears in his grip and he bends, hunched over it to start flinging the sand around. Little mountains of it start near his feet until there’s enough out of the bag that he can move around freely. “...stretches of sand.”

He doesn’t have any tools to even it out with, so he uses his feet. He kicks and nudges and pushes it all around him, pouring out sand all over the dirt floor until there’s a whole puddle of it, muddled and bumped and littered with his footprints. His eyebrows are knit together in determination, and when he finally looks up, Jongdae is staring at him, marveling at him like he’s some rare species he’s never seen before.

“As far as you can see,” Baekhyun states, as he tosses the empty bag onto the floor.

The basin of water is harder to get inside: Baekhyun struggles with it, pulling at the handle and wondering if he should have asked for help. The metal clangs against the floor and Baekhyun wonders if he’s waking anyone else up, or if they’re all too far gone to even care. Painstakingly, he works the tub across the opening, dragging and pulling until some of the water sloshes over the edge. It feels cool on his toes―not as cold as the ocean, maybe, but close enough. He leaves it poised somewhere at the edge of the sand, both of his hands on his hips as he straightens up again.

“I don’t have any shells,” Baekhyun warns, and his voice is like a lukewarm cup of tea. He can’t quite put the same bravado into it, the same playfulness like he used to. Jongdae’s book falls onto the covers of his bed and he takes a tentative step forward, into the sand, letting it cover his bare, dirty feet. Baekhyun meets him halfway. He reaches out, and Jongdae’s hands melt into his; they meet palm to palm, threading their fingers together into a tightly laced coverlet.

Jongdae is still staring at him. His eyes shine, and the tears that roll down his cheeks, silent and solid, surely taste like salt when they reach the corner of his softly curled lips.

If Baekhyun closes his eyes, he can imagine that they’re somewhere far away together. The sun is hot on their skin and Jongdae’s hands aren’t clammy with fear. The waves roll up onto the beach, a roaring that is gentle and welcome, unlike the stark clanging of the warning siren in their town. They can hunt for fish and shells without worrying about contamination, and they can dunk under the cold current of the ocean and not wonder if they’ll make it back out again.

They can simply be in love, something that feels like it’s been lost in this new, ugly world.

Jongdae’s breath is hot, in the small space between them. It’s the most alive he’s ever felt.

 

And when they finally kiss, Baekhyun thinks his heart is going to shatter: just like sea glass.

**Author's Note:**

> when i first started to work on this one, i had planned on it going in a completely different direction. somehow, the story led me somewhere else, but i think i'm more satisfied with this than what i had originally thought to do. i purposefully didn't want to define what had happened to the world too clearly - because to me, that's not necessarily the point of the story, so i'm sorry for the vague, heavy handed approach to that. ;; 
> 
> to the prompter, i hope that this doesn't go in too far off a direction you don't like!! and to everyone reading, thank you so much for taking the time to hopefully enjoy this one. ♥


End file.
